Three words. Just... three little words, words that he's heard thousand of times before coming from multiple people, words that were always favored by a very particular witcher. Hearing them right now, when he's feeling so emotional and vulnerable, is like getting punched in the stomach again.
Fuck this asshole of a witcher. At least his heart syncs up with his mind now, not wanting to seek Geralt's kindness anymore. Anger returns and, if he had the energy, he would scream.
"Didn't shut me up in two decades, witcher. Not going to start working now."
His tone is bitter, his lack of will power to say Geralt's name obvious. Not his best comeback, he admits, his sentences are choppy and lack dramatics, but it's the best he can do at the moment. Being sassy is all he has, his only weapon, the one he used against the soldiers when he realized being quiet and obedient wouldn't earn him better treatment.
(They did threaten him with worse, way worse. But he's no soldier, he's weak and wimpy, they were afraid anything would kill him, and they needed the information urgently. They threatened his hands and tongue as well. Jaskier yelled at them, tell them that damaging those was equal to actually killing him. They got the idea, but he has to wonder how many days would've passed before they would've decided to stop being careful.)
With a sigh and trembling arms, Jaskier starts undressing, slowly, painfully, whimpering whenever a particular wounded muscle is pulled the wrong way. At least this doesn't feel like a big deal, considering he and Geralt have seen each other naked many times before while washing in rivers or lakes. It does bother Jaskier, however, that this probably means there's no healer coming - the witcher plans to take care of him himself. Fantastic.
His legs have gotten the worst of the whipping. They kept mocking him, asking him to dance. Jaskier doesn't stand up to remove his pants, he lies down on the bed and raises his butt, which thankfully is only required for a couple of seconds, because he doesn't have the energy for more than that. He doesn't sit up after it either - the bed is comfortable. The cuts on his back are bothering him, and he feels like tearing his skin off, but the tiredness wins.
"...it's cold." He murmurs, his whole body shivering on the matress.
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Fuck this asshole of a witcher. At least his heart syncs up with his mind now, not wanting to seek Geralt's kindness anymore. Anger returns and, if he had the energy, he would scream.
"Didn't shut me up in two decades, witcher. Not going to start working now."
His tone is bitter, his lack of will power to say Geralt's name obvious. Not his best comeback, he admits, his sentences are choppy and lack dramatics, but it's the best he can do at the moment. Being sassy is all he has, his only weapon, the one he used against the soldiers when he realized being quiet and obedient wouldn't earn him better treatment.
(They did threaten him with worse, way worse. But he's no soldier, he's weak and wimpy, they were afraid anything would kill him, and they needed the information urgently. They threatened his hands and tongue as well. Jaskier yelled at them, tell them that damaging those was equal to actually killing him. They got the idea, but he has to wonder how many days would've passed before they would've decided to stop being careful.)
With a sigh and trembling arms, Jaskier starts undressing, slowly, painfully, whimpering whenever a particular wounded muscle is pulled the wrong way. At least this doesn't feel like a big deal, considering he and Geralt have seen each other naked many times before while washing in rivers or lakes. It does bother Jaskier, however, that this probably means there's no healer coming - the witcher plans to take care of him himself. Fantastic.
His legs have gotten the worst of the whipping. They kept mocking him, asking him to dance. Jaskier doesn't stand up to remove his pants, he lies down on the bed and raises his butt, which thankfully is only required for a couple of seconds, because he doesn't have the energy for more than that. He doesn't sit up after it either - the bed is comfortable. The cuts on his back are bothering him, and he feels like tearing his skin off, but the tiredness wins.
"...it's cold." He murmurs, his whole body shivering on the matress.